‘He said several large condensers had been removed from a German nerve gas factory at the end of the war and put into long-term underground storage at Nancekuke while the scientists tried to figure out exactly what they contained. The tanks were labelled Rasierklinge – razor blade in German. Samples were taken of the contents under strictly controlled conditions for analysis.
‘The tanks deteriorated over time. They should have been safely destroyed, but no one was too sure how to do that. So they were simply patched up to prevent leaks whenever they looked worryingly rusty. Noy claimed his illness dated from when he was sent down into the bunker where they were stored to do a repair job on one of the tanks. He claimed the scientists had eventually come up with the chemical formula for the contents and had manufactured some of it. Super Sarin, it was nicknamed. Super deadly, by implication. They were still producing small trial batches, according to him.
‘Alison and Peter wanted to prove Noy was telling the truth. If he was, the authorities were lying about what was going on at Nancekuke and were putting local residents and holidaymakers at risk with their irresponsible experiments. Noy said he could show them how to get into the base without being detected. He had some keys he was supposed to have handed back when he was laid off but had hung on to. They’d open the doors that gave access to the bunker. Security was slapdash, according to him. There was nothing to prevent us photographing the condensers and their Rasierklinge labels and then going to the press with the evidence.
‘I didn’t like it. Was security really as lax as Noy claimed? And if the condensers were in such a poor state of repair, was it safe to go into the bunker? They’d been down there for more than thirty years by then. Alison and Peter dismissed my concerns. A few risks were worth taking for the sake of exposing Nancekuke’s dirty secret. We had a responsibility to tell the world what was happening behind that chain-link fence. And they were excited by the idea of getting away with it. I could see that was a big part of the appeal to them.
‘They were excited, while I was scared stiff. But Alison was determined to go, and that meant I was determined to go too. The others cried off. Too dangerous, they reckoned. And I reckoned they were right. But Alison and Peter were going whatever anyone else said. If I cried off too, my last chance with Alison was blown. That’s how I saw it, anyway.
‘A plan was hatched. We’d go in during the extra long Silver Jubilee weekend, when everybody’s attention was fixed on the celebrations: the night of Sunday the fifth of June. We were to meet Noy in the Victory Inn near Porthtowan, where he’d hand over the keys and a sketch plan showing the best route to the bunker from the seaward side. We’d need wire-cutters for the fence, a torch and a good camera with a flash unit to take the photographs. Beyond that, all we really needed was nerve – and luck. I didn’t have enough of the former and I wasn’t convinced we’d get enough of the latter. But my reservations didn’t stop me going. I sensed Alison was testing me – she kept saying, “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.” And I couldn’t face failing the test. I had to go. I couldn’t bear not to.
‘We’d been down to Porthtowan a week before to reconnoitre the site. Getting through the fence from the coast path didn’t look difficult. Beyond that, we’d have to rely on the accuracy of Noy’s sketch plan – and his confident prediction that none of the locks were likely to have been changed since he’d left.
‘It was a long drive in Peter’s camper van that evening of the fifth. The sun was in our faces most of the way. Alison’s skin looked golden in the light. She glanced at me quite often during the journey, for no apparent reason. I couldn’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses. I couldn’t guess what she was thinking.
‘Now I can. She was thinking she shouldn’t let me go in with them. I was too frightened to be careful. I’d mess up somehow, alert base security to our presence, blow our chance. That’s what she was thinking.
‘She must have got hold of some knockout drug from Geoff. He denied it later, but his denials weren’t worth much, especially with the police breathing down our necks. We took some wine and some bottles of beer down to Porthtowan beach after leaving the pub, lit a fire and did our best impressions of idle students watching the sunset. My guess is, once night had fallen and there was only the firelight to see by, she put the drug in my bottle of beer. I remember at some point, when it was too dark to make much out, feeling her hair brush against my cheek. Maybe that was the moment, though at the time … I can still recapture the sensation, if I try hard enough. You could say it was her farewell to me. Because soon after that, I was out for the count, and they were free to go ahead without me.
‘I never saw Alison again. Or Peter. Until a week ago.’
EIGHTEEN
THE APARTMENT BUILDING was on hringbraut, a main road south-west of the centre. It was a big five-storey block with several entrances. There was no answer when they pressed the bell for Ragnar’s apartment. It was six o’clock, the road was busy and people were returning home from work. But not Ragnar. Not yet.
They followed a mother and child in, helping her manoeuvre her buggy through the doorway, then left her waiting for the lift and climbed the stairs to apartment 42 on the top floor.
They knocked, but there was no reply and no sound from within. It seemed he really was out. They sat on the step at the top of the stairs. And waited.
‘You know, don’t you, Nick,’ Erla began carefully, ‘this guy Driscoll – your father – well, he isn’t a good person? You get that, don’t you?’
‘My mother was a good person,’ Nick said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe one out of two isn’t so bad.’
‘Was?’
‘She died a few months ago.’
‘Shit. Sorry.’
‘You could say that’s what set all this going. You could say she set it going. Well, the Caldwell side of things anyway. Which is how I found out Driscoll is my father.’
‘It’s not too late to forget all about him and go home.’
‘I’m not going to do that. I don’t think I could. Forget, I mean. Besides …’ There was a rumble at that moment from the lift shaft. Someone was coming up. ‘If this is Ragnar, it’s already too late.’
And it was.
Ragnar didn’t cut an imposing figure: young, pale and paunchy, with receding hair and a slight unsteadiness that suggested he’d come from work via a bar. He wore a three-piece suit, but no tie, under a light parka. A heavy shoulder bag was dragging him down on one side.
He greeted Erla unsmilingly in Icelandic. She replied in English. ‘This is my friend Nick Miller. Nick, this is Ragnar Reynisson.’
There were no handshakes. Ragnar’s expression suggested he wished he’d stayed in the bar. ‘What do you want?’
‘To talk,’ said Erla. ‘About Kristjan.’
‘I’ve got nothing to say.’
‘Why don’t we step into your apartment?’ Nick said in his most reasonable tone. ‘You can say nothing there in greater comfort.’
Ragnar glared at Erla and said something in Icelandic. She rolled her eyes at Nick. ‘He says we should basically fuck off.’
‘Nice,’ said Nick. He took half a step towards Ragnar, who took a full pace back. ‘Listen, Ragnar. Erla’s put me in the picture. I know you helped Kristjan and Wada get into Quartizon’s computer system on Sunday night. After what happened, I imagine Quartizon would like to be able to identify which member of their staff leaked the access codes. You want me to point them in your direction?’
Ragnar looked at Nick for quite a while, weighing up the problem. Then he said, ‘Who’s Wada?’
‘Kristjan’s Japanese friend. Erla hasn’t heard from her since Sunday.’
‘She told me her name was Abe.’
‘OK. Abe.’ Evidently – and perhaps wisely – Wada had used a pseudonym. ‘We want to know why the police turned up so quickly, Ragnar. The obvious explanation is … you tipped them off.’
‘I didn’t tell anyone anything.’
‘Som
eone did.’
‘Not necessarily.’ Ragnar glanced over his shoulder, as if afraid they might be overheard, though they were alone on the landing. ‘All right. We’ll talk. This way.’
He led them to the door of his apartment and went in.
It was immediately obvious Ragnar lived as slobbishly as he dressed. Clothes were strewn everywhere and, as they passed the kitchen, Nick glimpsed a stack of unwashed dishes and a teetering tower of crushed pizza boxes.
They followed him into the lounge, which appeared to be the centre of the general chaos. He didn’t offer them a seat as he unloaded his shoulder bag on to a table and took off his parka. The bag brushed against a trio of empty lager bottles, causing them to topple over and roll noisily around, one of them falling to the floor. Ragnar paid no attention.
‘Who is this guy, Erla?’ he asked, nodding towards Nick.
‘I told you.’
‘You told me his name, yeah, but … who is he?’
‘A friend.’
‘Of Martin Caldwell’s,’ Nick cut in.
Ragnar gawked at him. ‘So you’re English, right?’
‘Right.’
‘You remind me of someone. Who is it?’
‘How should I know?’
Ragnar frowned. ‘It’ll come to me.’
‘While it does, why don’t you explain why things went wrong on Sunday night?’
Ragnar looked at Erla. ‘Does Kristjan know you’ve involved this guy?’
‘Just answer his question.’
‘I didn’t rat on Kristjan, OK? Why would I? As the person who got him and Abe into the building, I had more to lose than anyone from them being caught.’
‘So,’ said Nick, ‘what went wrong?’
‘My guess? Some booby trap built into the system. Any attempt to access the files out of hours triggers an alarm. This Emergence shit is even more sensitive than I thought. The office has been like a North Korean interrogation camp these past two days. Real heavy stuff.’
‘What are they worried about? Didn’t the booby trap work properly?’
‘You tell me. The police only caught Kristjan, right? So, did Abe get away with anything?’
‘What’s the consensus among your colleagues?’
‘My Japanese colleagues, you mean? They don’t tell me anything. I’m not in the loop. The launch is still on for tomorrow, so obviously Driscoll isn’t too bothered. But then he’s never much bothered. On top of Kristjan breaking into the Emergence files, some guy Nishizaki HQ sent over here has gone missing, though I’d seen nothing of him even before he dropped off the radar, and now they’re sending some other guy to investigate, but none of that seems to— Hold on.’ Ragnar stared at Nick for a moment, then snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it. That’s who you remind me of. You look a bit like a … younger version of Driscoll.’
‘Do you see much of Driscoll?’
‘No. But he comes and goes at the office when he’s in Reykjavík. I see him then.’ Ragnar was peering at Nick intently now. ‘Are you … related to him?’
‘You’d need to ask him.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Who is the missing man from Nishizaki HQ, Ragnar?’ asked Erla, adroitly changing the subject.
‘His name’s Ohara. Met him, have you? Unusually tall for a Jap, so they tell me.’
‘Ohara?’ queried Nick.
‘Yeah. O-H-A-R-A.’
Of course. A Japanese name that sounded like an Irish one. It was some kind of joke, though not a very funny one. Ohara was the Irishman. But he wasn’t Irish. ‘Missing, you say?’
‘Evidently.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since I’m not fucking sure exactly when, because, like I said, I never met the guy anyway. But it’s got them spooked in Tokyo. Ohara answers direct to Nishizaki himself, according to one of the few rumours my honourable co-workers shared with me. And the same goes for Zayala, the second-in-line shark they’re sending to find him, so it’s quite a big deal.’
‘Why did Nishizaki send Ohara here in the first place?’
‘Dunno. Maybe I should text him and ask.’
‘Come on, Ragnar. You’re not really the dope you pretend to be. What’s going on?’
Ragnar snarled something to Erla in Icelandic. ‘Apparently, he doesn’t appreciate your sarcasm, Nick,’ she explained.
Ragnar gave a grumpy harrumph and leant back against the table. He folded his arms. ‘I don’t get what your interest is in all this … Nicholas.’
‘I’m a friend of Martin Caldwell. He’s missing too.’
‘I know. Kristjan told me. Missing’s getting to be contagious.’
‘Why do you think Nishizaki sent Ohara here? You must have some idea.’
‘Maybe to check up on Driscoll. It’d be kind of nice to think those two don’t trust each other.’
‘Any real evidence for that?’
‘The evidence is Ohara coming over and going missing and Zayala coming after him. First signs I’ve ever seen that anyone at Nishizaki HQ could find Iceland on a map of the world.’
‘How has Driscoll reacted?’
‘He hasn’t. But then he wouldn’t. Cool as ice, that guy.’
‘Where does he stay when he’s in town?’
‘The company owns a house in Fjólugata. Number nineteen. Low-key but smart. I hear he stays there.’
‘And he’s in town now?’
Ragnar nodded. ‘Naturally. The launch is tomorrow.’
‘What will that involve?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not allowed to know. But it’s a sure bet it’s to do with all this land that’s been acquired in Quartizon’s name. Well, the land I think we’ve acquired. Like I told Kristjan and Abe, I’m kept out of that side of things. Japanese staff only. I work on deal-brokering business, which has been pretty quiet lately, like it’s just … a sideshow.’
‘Or window-dressing?’
‘And they dress a shop window with dummies, right? I’m ahead of you, Nicholas. Funny guy, aren’t you?’
‘How could I attend the launch?’
‘You’d need an invitation. Without one … you won’t get past security.’
‘And these invitations are … hard to come by, are they?’
‘For you, impossible to come by.’
Nick stopped himself from smiling. ‘That’s a pity.’
‘Yeah. With Kristjan in a police cell, Abe, Caldwell and Ohara all missing and the little I can tell you still being way short of enough, I’d say you were out of options, Nicholas, wouldn’t you?’
Now Nick did smile – faintly. ‘We’ll see.’
Fjólugata 19 was an elegant whitewashed villa, boasting more of a garden than Nick had seen elsewhere in the city. The low boundary walls were topped with railings and the wrought-iron entrance gates were firmly closed. There was a bell and an intercom on the left-hand gate pillar, suggesting simply walking in wasn’t an option. A Bentley coupé stood on the sloping drive. Lights burned in several windows, but the blinds were closed.
The house was next door to the Norwegian embassy in what passed for Reykjavík’s diplomatic quarter. A gentle night had fallen and the last of the snow and ice was streaming away along pavements and gutters. From the far side of the road Nick gazed across and slightly up at what all the evidence suggested was his father’s Icelandic home from home.
‘Are you thinking of going across and ringing the bell?’ asked Erla. They were standing in the shade of a tree, well away from the nearest street lamp. It seemed unlikely anyone inside the house would be aware of their presence. But if Nick crossed the road and rang the bell, all that would change. And much else might change with it.
‘No,’ he answered quietly. ‘He’s here for the launch and that’s where I plan to meet him.’
‘What about the small problem of an invitation?’
‘I have that sorted.’
‘You do?’
‘I didn’t want Ragnar to know, but, yes, I have an invita
tion.’
‘How did you wangle that?’
‘Somebody gave me one to make me go away.’
‘I guess it’s best if I don’t ask who.’
‘Probably.’
‘So, if you’re going to wait until tomorrow, why are we here?’
‘Not sure. It’s just a house, after all. But the idea that he might be … in there … doing whatever he does … while we’re out here … so close and yet so distant …’ Nick sighed. ‘It’s a strange feeling.’
‘It must be.’
‘Perhaps, in fact, the strangest feeling I’ve ever had.’
They went to a restaurant Erla recommended on the grounds that she couldn’t afford to eat there but Nick could. They were in no hurry, reckoning the later they arrived at the Sol the better their chances of finding Wada in her room. Nick had hidden from Erla the reason why he hadn’t rung the bell at Fjólugata 19. Now it had come to the point, he’d started wondering whether he really should take the final step. He was going to take it, no question. But, afterwards, would he be happy he had? Would the day come when he regarded this journey to Iceland as the biggest mistake he’d ever made?
The Sol was quiet, the reception area enveloped in shadows. The baby-faced young man behind the desk was fiddling idly with his phone. But he was all attention when Nick and Erla approached him.
‘Umiko Wada?’ He consulted a computer screen. ‘I’m sorry, she isn’t here at the moment.’
‘But she does have a room here?’
‘Oh yes. But … she’s not here at present.’
‘Can you tell me when she was last here?’
‘Er, I’m not sure. I’m not on duty all the time.’
Erla asked something in Icelandic, smiling and making encouraging eye contact with the young man. He smiled back and said a lot more than he had to Nick, though, judging by Erla’s expression, it wasn’t much more helpful. She pressed on. He began to look flustered.
The Fine Art of Invisible Detection Page 20
